


and further still

by sundays



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Financial Issues, Homelessness, Hotels, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundays/pseuds/sundays
Summary: Eduardo is a prostitute, and Mark works the night shift at a motel. They fall in love.
Relationships: Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 33
Kudos: 53





	1. sixty dollars

**Author's Note:**

> loosely based on this [kinkmeme prompt](https://tsn-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/8689.html?thread=18831089#cmt18831089): _Hooker AU. Eduardo's a hooker who takes his clients to a motel. Mark works as a nighttime clerk in said motel to pay for TheFacebook(?). After Eduardo's done, they often chat. And somewhere along the way they become friends. Eduardo could have abusive clients, revolting clients, whatever. Lots of pining + inexperienced!Mark = A+++_
> 
> title from robert frost's poem "[Acquainted with the Night](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47548/acquainted-with-the-night)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** prostitution, vague depiction of unpleasant sex

It's ten PM, forty degrees, and Eduardo's been standing on the street corner for hours when a car— a Mercedes— finally pulls over to the curb.

The passenger side window rolls down, and Eduardo approaches, leans on the door. "Show me your dick," he says to the driver.

The guy complies, so he's not a cop, just an unattractive middle-aged man looking for someone to fuck.

Eduardo nods wearily, and the guy zips his pants back up. "How much?" he asks.

"A hundred dollars for an hour," Eduardo tells him, deciding to aim high based on the expensive car. "And you have to use a condom," he adds, though guys like this never actually do.

"You think your skinny ass is worth a hundred bucks?" the guy scoffs. "I'll give you sixty."

Eduardo wants to stand his ground, to maintain some sense of dignity and say no. But sixty dollars will pay for a whole night's stay at his usual motel, and something to eat too.

And Eduardo is cold and hungry and tired. So fucking tired, Jesus Christ.

So he says okay, and he gets into the car.

***

The guy drives to an empty parking lot, where he fucks Eduardo doggy-style in the backseat of the Mercedes.

It's rough and unpleasant and the only lube involved is saliva, but Eduardo's had worse. And the guy doesn't use a condom, but Eduardo hadn't expected him to.

Eventually it's over, and Eduardo is left standing in the parking lot, three twenties clutched in his hand. 

He watches the Mercedes drive away.

Then he sets off for the White Hen Inn.

***

The White Hen Inn is a shithole: the kind of motel with broken syringes by the entrance, bullet-proof glass in the lobby, and stained sheets on the beds.

Rooms are $50 a night, or $20 for two hours. The manager is an older guy named something-or-other Narendra, and when Eduardo arrives, he's sitting behind the glass at the front desk.

Affixed to the glass is a sign that Eduardo's never seen before— a piece of paper printed with the words:

_NO CASH_  
_NO DRUGS_  
_NO PROSTITUTION_

Eduardo stares at it for a while, disquieted. Then he glances up at the manager, who's giving him a sympathetic look, and asks: "What does it mean by, uh, 'no cash'?"

The manager sighs. "Means what it sounds like," he says. "New policy. Just went into effect today."

"Why?"

"Police are breathing down my neck," says the manager with a grimace, "threatening to get me shut down unless I take steps to combat so-called illegal activities on the premises." He holds up his arms in a kind of helpless shrug. "No more cash payments, no more hourly rates, no more check-ins after midnight."

"But—" Eduardo doesn't know what to say. "Please?" he lands on at last. "Please, I'll— listen, what if I pay you sixty instead of fifty; I have the money right here—"

"I can't," the manager tells him. "They'll be going over my records. I can't risk it." And then, maybe in response to the look on Eduardo's face, "This motel is my _livelihood_ ," he says, sounding apologetic.

And Eduardo decides there's no point in continuing to argue. "Of course, I— I understand," he says quietly. "It's fine. I'll be fine." He's not sure why he says that. Maybe the same reason why he says sorry to clients when they can't get hard, or thanks them just for paying what he's asked for. Some misplaced desire to make others happy, to establish harmony, to keep the peace.

The manager nods. "I'll see you around, then," he offers, though they both must know that Eduardo won't be back.

"Yeah," says Eduardo. 

And with that, he opens the door of the lobby, and steps out into the dark.

***

For a while he just stands there on the sidewalk, gripping the straps of the backpack which contains all his worldly possessions, breathing in the frigid night air.

Then he starts to walk.

His head hurts. His legs hurt. His ass hurts. 

He keeps walking. 

He crosses Longfellow Bridge out of Boston, over into Cambridge. He passes businesses and restaurants and residential areas. He wonders where he's going.

And then, after he's been walking for maybe two hours, he sees it— a neon sign in the distance that reads:

_PHOENIX MOTOR LODGE_

Eduardo picks up his pace a bit, heading in that direction, and it isn't long before he reaches the motel. A sign on the door to the lobby reads:

_$58 per night!_  
_Discount hourly rates!_  
_Inquire within!_

Eduardo pulls open the door and steps inside, where there's a junky table and a couple chairs, a vending machine, and a reception desk behind glass. At the desk sits a young guy with curly brown hair, swiveling around in his chair. He looks up when Eduardo enters.

"Hi," says Eduardo. It's warm inside. He inhales deeply.

The guy just watches him, frowning a little.

"Uh. Do you take cash?" Eduardo asks.

The guy nods. Thank fuck.

"And it's $58 per night?"

Another nod.

Eduardo steps closer, so he's able to read that the guy's name-tag says _Mark_. He slides his sixty dollars and his fake Florida ID card under the glass via a little metal tray. 

The guy— Mark— counts the money first, then purses his lips ever-so-slightly as he examines Eduardo's ID. And Jesus, he has nice lips: pink and full and delicately curved, like—

"This isn't a good fake, you know."

Eduardo is startled from his contemplation of Mark's lips. "What?" he asks.

"This drivers license," says Mark. "It's not a good fake."

Fuck. _Fuck_. "It's not fake," Eduardo says, probably too quickly.

"Yes it is," states Mark. "See the word 'EXPIRES'? The bottom right leg of the 'R' goes all the way down. On real ones it's cut off."

He passes the ID back to Eduardo and Eduardo picks it up, stares down at the picture of his own face next to the name _LUIS SILVA_. He glances at the word "EXPIRES," at the slanted little leg of the "R." You get what you pay for, he supposes glumly, resigning himself to the prospect of sleeping outside tonight. He pockets the card with a sigh.

"Anyway, _Luis_ ," says Mark. "I just thought you should know that it's a low-quality fake. I don't personally give a shit if you want to check in under a pseudonym." He presses a few buttons on the computer.

Eduardo frowns. "You… don't?"

"Why would I?" Mark asks. He closes the cash register and slides two dollar bills under the glass. "Here's your change. And your room key," he adds, sliding over a key card too. "You're in room 34. Checkout's at noon."

Eduardo takes the card and the cash and tucks them into his pocket beside his fake ID. "Thanks," he says quietly. 

Mark just shrugs. 

Eduardo spares Mark's lips one more glance, then heads over to the vending machine by the door, where he buys a bag of pretzels for $1.85.

"Hey," says Mark, as Eduardo is about to leave the lobby.

Eduardo turns around.

"There are cameras outside," Mark tells him. "The owner watches back the tape sometimes. Too much traffic in and out of your room will get you put on the Do Not Rent list. And sometimes he calls the police, if he's in a bad mood."

Eduardo blushes. Because, _I know you're a whore_ , is what Mark is really saying. _Be careful about bringing your clients back here._

It makes him feel dirty, to know Mark can tell what he is just by looking. "I'm not— I'm not working tonight," he mutters, glancing up from the scuffed linoleum floor. "I just need somewhere to sleep. But thank you."

Mark nods.

Eduardo hesitates, and then: "My name's Eduardo," he says. "Not Luis."

Mark nods again. "I'm Mark."

They stare at each other for a moment. Mark's eyes are blue, his expression searching. Finally Eduardo drops his gaze, pulls the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands, and pushes open the door.

But he glances back before he leaves, meets Mark's eye one more time.

Mark smiles at him.

And maybe Eduardo smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and i'm sorry that all i do is start new fics *hides* 
> 
> i SWEAR i will finish my other fics and i am actively working on them as well!!!
> 
> anyway, comments would be very appreciated because i feel insecure af about this fic for some reason lol!


	2. denny’s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** food insecurity, prostitution
> 
> also this will be expanded upon later, but eduardo's been a prostitute for a while, he's just clueless about cambridge because he's always worked in boston before

The room is pretty much exactly what Eduardo had anticipated: small, sparsely furnished, and of questionable cleanliness. He fiddles around with the heater for a few minutes before deciding that it's broken. 

Next he takes a shower. There's mildew on the shower curtain; he ignores it. There's what looks like a pubic hair adhering to the towel he grabs to dry off on; he removes it.

Once he's dry, he gets dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt and sits on the bed, shivering, as he eats his pretzels. They don't do much to fill his stomach, which grumbles unhappily as he brushes his teeth. But tomorrow he'll buy food, he resolves— real food, even if it means he can't afford a motel room that night and has to sleep outside in the freezing cold.

He replaces his toothbrush in his backpack and walks back out into the main room. Even through his socks, he can feel that the carpet is sticky. He gets into bed, sets the alarm on the nightstand, and turns off the sad little lamp.

Then he burrows down under the blankets. He wonders if they're clean. Possibly not. He curls up and lies there for a while, trying not to think about the smarting pain in his asshole, trying to focus on other things instead: the sound of the traffic rushing by outside, the lumpiness of the mattress under his shoulder, the slightly musty smell of the duvet pulled up to his nose. It doesn't really help.

He shuts his eyes more tightly, and— and, without really meaning to, he starts thinking about Mark. Mark, with his perfect lips and perfect curls and perfect dark blue eyes. Mark, who'd warned him about the cameras and accepted his fake ID. 

Who'd smiled at him. 

It had been a long time since someone had smiled at him like that. Like... well, like he mattered or something.

Eduardo shifts a little in bed, exhales deeply, and replays that smile in his mind.

And, eventually, he manages to fall asleep.

***

His alarm goes off at 11:30 the next morning. It's still freezing in his room, and he stays huddled under the blankets for as long as he can possibly justify, but eventually he gets up, gets dressed in his work clothes, and heads to the lobby.

He knows Mark's shift probably ended hours ago, but he still feels a prick of disappointment when he finds a woman working the front desk. He returns his key-card, and the lady— _Sharon_ , says her name tag— takes it wordlessly.

Eduardo hesitates, and then, unable to help himself: "When is, uh, Mark's next shift here?" he asks.

Tonight, from 11 PM to 7 AM, the lady tells him, squinting over at a piece of paper on the wall.

Eduardo's chest flutters a little. He thanks the lady and hurries out of the lobby before she can see him blushing. 

And it's cold outside, but at the thought of seeing Mark again tonight, Eduardo just feels warm.

***

He walks for a few blocks, past an apartment complex, past a gas station, until he happens upon a rundown-looking 24-hour Denny's restaurant. 

Its windows are plastered with giant images of fluffy French toast, syrup-drenched pancakes, a sandwich with a side of onion rings... 

And Jesus Christ, Eduardo is so fucking hungry. He wants some of those pancakes. Or even just one pancake. 

But the fifteen cents in his pocket won't buy him shit, will it? And that's what he's stuck with, at least until he figures out where to go in Cambridge to pick up clients. He sighs, and forces himself to look away from the posters on the windows, forces himself to keep walking.

***

After maybe ten minutes, he finds himself in a downtown shopping sort of area, which is basically what he'd been looking for. It doesn't exactly seem like a bad part of town, but there are panhandlers sprinkled here and there, and he passes a few homeless people asleep on the sidewalk. It's as good a place as he's likely to find today, he figures.

So he comes to a stop on a corner in front of a Starbucks, leans against the pole of a traffic light, and waits.

***

Business isn't great.

Twelve hours later, Eduardo has had only three customers: a handjob and two blowjobs. The last guy had promised him twenty-five bucks, but found, after coming down Eduardo's throat, that he'd only had a ten in his wallet.

"It's okay," Eduardo had told him, hating himself. "It's fine. Don't worry."

The guy had driven away and Eduardo had shoved the ten-dollar bill in his pocket beside the forty-five bucks he'd made earlier. Then he'd called it a night and set off down the sidewalk.

***

It's a quarter past midnight when he passes the Denny's he'd seen earlier. And this time, he goes inside. 

He orders pancakes, with bacon, sausages, hash browns, and eggs. When the waitress brings it out to him, his empty stomach lurches at the smell.

"Thank you," he says, beginning to eat before she's even left the table. But he tries to chew slowly, tries to savor the taste the food, his first proper meal in longer than he cares to think about.

It isn't long before he's full, but he keeps eating, doesn't stop till the plate is picked clean. Then he pays and leaves the restaurant, so stuffed that it feels like he might burst. It's nice though, he thinks ruefully, to not be hungry for once.

He can see the _Phoenix Motor Lodge_ sign glowing a couple blocks away, so he heads in that direction. He's still got forty dollars left, which should be enough to rent a room for maybe a few hours.

And if it's not enough, well. At least he'll get to see Mark again.

And with that thought in mind, Eduardo walks a bit faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! comments would be very appreciated, as always <3
> 
> sorry if this chapter is boring... mark will be in the next chapter, don't worry


	3. rain

When Eduardo is halfway to the Phoenix, it starts to rain. Because fuck, of course it would rain now, when he doesn't have enough money for a full night's stay at a motel. He zips up his jacket and shoves his hands in his pockets, wishing he had a hood. Or an umbrella. Or even just a thicker jacket.

The rain pummels him as he walks, and by the time he reaches the motel a few minutes later, he's pretty much soaked. 

But when he pushes open the door to the lobby and steps inside, there's Mark. And suddenly, Eduardo kind of forgets about being wet and miserable and broke. "Hi," he says bashfully.

"Hey," replies Mark, sitting up a bit straighter behind the desk.

"Sorry I'm, um. I'm all wet," Eduardo offers, unsure why he's apologizing. He isn't really thinking clearly; he's a bit too focused on how fucking good Mark looks, even in the shitty fluorescent lights of the lobby— how his hair is slightly tousled, his lips are slightly parted. "It's raining," he adds stupidly.

Mark just stares at him.

Eduardo runs a hand over his dripping face and takes a few steps closer to the desk. He wants to say something funny and suave and charming, but he's never been good at that, not even after working as a fucking hooker for three years. "I'd like a room," is what he ends up saying. "But, um. The sign outside mentions hourly rates?"

Mark nods. "Twenty-five dollars for two hours, and ten dollars for every additional hour after that," he recites.

Eduardo has forty bucks, which means he can afford three hours. Better than nothing, he supposes. And maybe he'll get lucky and the rain will have stopped by the time he leaves.

"Okay," he tells Mark. "Can I get a room for three hours?" He pulls the forty dollars and his fake ID out of his pocket, and slides them to Mark under the glass.

Mark doesn't take them, doesn't look away from Eduardo's face. "And after that?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

Mark squints at him a little. "After the three hours are up," he says, "where will you go?"

"Oh." Eduardo shrugs, lowering his eyes. "You know. Around."

"Around," Mark echoes. He sounds unimpressed. There's a pause, and then: "Are you homeless?" he asks bluntly.

Eduardo feels himself flushing. He wraps his arms around his midsection and gives another shrug. "I mean, I usually stay in motels," he says. "So— It's not like I just sleep on the street every night or something."

"But tonight you will, after you leave here," Mark says.

Eduardo doesn't answer, just stares down at the counter. 

"It's raining," says Mark, as if Eduardo doesn't already know that. "And cold."

"Yeah," Eduardo mumbles. "But it's fine; I'm used to it." Which is a lie— Eduardo's from Miami, where winters are seventy degrees. He's not sure he'll ever get used to the weather here in Massachusetts.

Mark doesn't respond for a while. Then he clears his throat. "I can't let you stay in the lobby," he says slowly. "There's a camera, and if the owner saw that, he'd probably fire me."

Eduardo glances up in surprise. "Of course," he says. "You don't have to— I'd never expect—"

"But there's a back room," Mark goes on, cutting off Eduardo's protests. He points to a door behind the front desk. "You could sleep in there until my shift ends at seven. Then before I leave I'll rent you a motel room, and you can stay there till ten." He shrugs. "That'll give you nine hours out of the rain instead of three."

Eduardo frowns, not sure he heard right.

"There aren't any cameras facing the desk," Mark adds, as if he thinks that's what's bothering Eduardo. "So no one would never know."

"You'd—" Eduardo breaks off, then tries again. "You'd let me do that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can just stay in the back room? For free?"

"Sure, why not?" Mark shrugs. He slides the money and the ID card back to Eduardo, and Eduardo swallows the lump in throat. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, pocketing the bundle. "Thank you so much; Jesus, I don't even know what to say."

"It's not a big deal," says Mark. He sounds embarrassed.

But it _is_ a big deal. It's a really big deal, and Eduardo wants Mark to know that. He opens his mouth, feels his chin trembling, feels his eyes stinging. "I— shit," he says at last, pathetically. It's all he can manage.

But Mark nods, like maybe he understands.

Then he opens the door to the reception area, leads Eduardo behind the desk, and unlocks the back room.

*** 

The room is small, stuffy, and dimly-lit, containing nothing more than a desk, two chairs, a computer, and a mini fridge in the corner. There's also shelving along the walls, stacked with boxes and extra linens and that sort of thing.

Mark fidgets with his hands as Eduardo looks around. "You can sit at the desk, or— I don't know, you could lie on the floor I guess," he says. "And you can use any of the sheets and towels on the shelves."

Eduardo nods mutely.

"So yeah. I'll be out there if you need me," Mark says, gesturing toward the door.

"Thank you," Eduardo tells him again. It still feels inadequate.

Mark gives him a brief, shy smile, which makes Eduardo's chest tingle pleasantly.

"I'll see you at seven," Mark says then.

"Yeah," says Eduardo. "See you."

Mark stands there for a few moments, his gaze lingering on Eduardo. Then he slips back out through the door, back out into the lobby.

***

Eduardo changes into his sweats and dries his hair as best as he can on a towel. He drapes his wet clothes over the two folding chairs, hoping they'll dry a little while he sleeps. Then he cocoons himself in a sheet and curls up on the linoleum floor.

It's almost too warm in the room, and Eduardo's stomach is still too full from Denny's, but he doesn't mind. It's better than being cold and hungry.

And within minutes, Eduardo is fast asleep.

***

"Hey. Wake up."

Eduardo jerks awake. Someone's touching him. He sits up as quickly as he can, gasping for air—

And sees Mark, crouched beside him, frowning.

"Mark," Eduardo says breathlessly.

"Uh, yeah," says Mark. "Calm down, okay? It's 6:45; time to rent your room."

"Sorry," mutters Eduardo. He stands up, hastily folding the sheet, gathering up his wet clothes.

Mark just watches him, steadily, wordlessly.

Then they return to the reception area, and Eduardo ducks his head as he goes through the door to the main part of the lobby. He gets out his money and ID and passes them over to Mark, who quickly completes the booking on the computer.

"You're in room 16," he says, sliding Eduardo his change and a key card. He seems to hesitate, then adds, "Today I'm working second shift, from three to eleven PM."

Eduardo nods. "I'll see you then, probably."

Mark's cheeks color a little, and his lips quirk upward. And he says, very firmly: "Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! leave a comment to make my day <3
> 
> btw [here](https://i.imgur.com/2JJq9dg.png) are some [pics](https://i.imgur.com/LtisuRO.png) of motel lobby desk areas lol?


	4. fifty dollars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** sexual assault and choking

Room 16 smells strongly of cigarette smoke and is just as grimy as last night's room had been, but it does have heating that works, so that's something.

Eduardo turns on the radiator and drapes his damp clothes over it. Then he takes a shower, sets the alarm on the nightstand, and gets into bed.

***

When he wakes up two and a half hours later, it's still raining, and his work clothes still aren't dry. He sighs and gets dressed in them anyway— jeans, a t-shirt, and a stupidly flimsy jacket. He puts on his socks and shoes (also soaked) and returns his key-card to Sharon in the lobby.

Then he heads out into the rain.

***

He goes to the same downtown area he'd found yesterday, because he doesn't feel like walking around Cambridge in a storm until he discovers where the hookers hang out.

He stations himself on a street corner and makes eye contact with every man who so much as glances in his direction. Most of them just look away. A few scowl at him. None of them show any interest.

And it's not like Eduardo blames them: He's well aware that he doesn't look particularly sexy right now, soaking wet and shivering, his hair plastered down with rain and his teeth chattering uncontrollably.

Besides, it's a rainy Thursday morning, for fuck's sake. No one's out looking for a prostitute. 

***

Eventually Eduardo moves on from that corner, trudges through the rain until he finds some seedy little bar. There's an awning by the door, which Eduardo takes shelter under. He stands there for an hour or so, eyeing men up as they pass by on the sidewalk or walk out the door.

No luck.

So Eduardo gets more assertive: he starts falling into step beside guys as they exit the bar, starts asking them if they're lonely, if maybe they'd like some company.

 _Fuck off_ , he's told.

_No fucking way._

_Shit kid, I'm not_ that _drunk._

And Jesus, if there's anything more degrading than letting people fuck you for money, it's not being able to find anyone who _wants_ to fuck you for money.

At around three PM, Eduardo gives up on trying to get customers. He sighs, sits down on the ground outside the bar, and just starts asking people for spare change.

***

Two hours of begging earns him three measly dollars, plus a lot of glares and a few suggestions to get a job. Eduardo's not sure how much more he can bear, but he figures he'll keep trying at least until it gets dark. And if worst comes to worst, well, it's stopped raining. He'll be alright sleeping outside. Maybe. Unless he freezes to death.

The bar door opens and a man in a leather jacket steps out, startling Eduardo from his thoughts. He stands up. "Excuse me, sir? I need bus fare; could you possibly spare a couple dollars?" he tries.

The guy comes to a halt and gives Eduardo an appraising up-and-down look. Then he smiles. "I can spare more than that," he says, taking a few steps closer. "But you'll have to earn it."

"I can earn it," Eduardo says quickly.

"Oh yeah?" The guy's breath reeks of alcohol. He reaches out and grabs Eduardo's dick through his jeans. 

"Yeah, um," says Eduardo, cringing a little, but not bothering to push the guy's hand away. "It's twenty-five for a blowjob, eighty for anal?" he tries on a whim.

The guy smirks, like there's something funny about the prices. "Come on," he says then, and he starts walking.

Eduardo follows. They head down the alley beside the bar, then turn to the left, so they're standing by the dumpsters.

Wordlessly, guy unzips his pants and pulls out his dick. 

And Eduardo doesn't wait for instructions, just kneels down, takes the dick in his mouth, and begins to suck.

The guy runs his fingers through Eduardo's wet hair. "Is that the best you can do?" he asks. He grabs Eduardo's head, forcing him to take the cock deeper.

And then, without any warning, he wraps his hands around Eduardo's throat and squeezes.

"Keep going," he instructs Eduardo as he chokes him.

But Eduardo can't breathe, can't think. He tries to call out. He tries to stand up. But the guy just squeezes harder, harder—

And then he lets go, moves his hands to Eduardo's shoulders instead.

As Eduardo gasps for air, the guy laughs.

"Go on," he commands, still holding Eduardo in place by the shoulders, his grip so tight that Eduardo knows it would be futile to try to fight.

So he opens his mouth and goes back to sucking the guy's fucking dick.

On and off, the guy continues to choke him, barking out commands like "faster," or "slower," or "deeper." And Eduardo does his best to obey, because he doesn't want to die, not like this, not strangled to death in some dirty back-alley with a cock in his mouth.

He exhales in relief when the guy finally pulls out, only to realize, as he's manhandled onto the ground, that it isn't over yet.

"It's— it's eighty dollars for anal, remember?" Eduardo croaks.

The guy pulls down Eduardo's soggy jeans and boxers with one hand, the other hand planted firmly on Eduardo's back. "How about I fuck you first, then _I_ decide what you're worth?" he says.

And Eduardo starts to cry.

***

He cries as he gets fucked in the ass (no lube, no condom, no stretching).

He cries as he's handed his payment, a crumpled fifty-dollar bill.

He cries as he's left sitting huddled on the rain-drenched ground with his pants around his ankles. 

He sits there for a long time.

And then, shakily, he picks himself up. He wipes his eyes. He leaves the alley.

He has fifty-eight dollars in total, which is exactly enough for one night's stay at the Phoenix. And it's five PM, which means Mark is working right now.

So he heads off in the direction of the motel. 

It hurts to walk. 

He keeps walking anyway. 

Overhead, the sky is a deep, rich blue, tinged orange at the horizon. Eduardo keeps his eyes fixed on it. And he tells himself, again and again, that he's okay. His ass will heal. He's still alive, which is what matters.

***

And eventually, he reaches the Phoenix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this is kind of a dark chapter but next chapter there will be hurt/comfort. and things will be generally looking up? thanks for reading. comments mean the world to me.


	5. concern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** allusions to sexual assault and injuries resulting from it, mentions of choking, mention of blood
> 
>  **note:** this is a short chapter and oops, there isn't really hurt/comfort yet. BUT IT'S COMING. NEXT CHAPTER.

"Hey," Eduardo says wearily to Mark as he steps into the lobby and makes his way to the front desk, trying not to visibly wince at how painful it is to walk. "Can I have a room for the night?" he asks.

Mark just frowns at him.

Eduardo slides over his Luis Silva ID and his money— the fifty-dollar bill, plus the three dollars he made from begging and the five dollars he had left over from yesterday.

Mark doesn't take them. "Eduardo, it looks like someone tried to strangle you," he says, still frowning.

"Oh," Eduardo laughs, lifting a hand to his neck. "Don't worry. I mean— I mean, it was consensual, so..."

"You have a choking kink?"

"No, but—" Eduardo isn't too enthused by the direction this conversation is going. "He paid me," he mumbles. "So it's fine."

"You let a stranger pay to choke you," Mark says.

And Eduardo feels a rush of shame, and something like betrayal too. Because he'd thought Mark was different. He'd thought Mark hadn't cared about how he made his money. "Listen, I came here for a room," he says. "Not to be judged."

"Don't be stupid; I'm not judging you," Mark snaps. He pauses, then adds, a bit stiffly: "I'm expressing concern."

"I don't need any concern."

"You have a notoriously dangerous profession and you came in here limping with your neck covered in bruises," says Mark, his tone matter-of-fact. "I think some degree of concern is warranted."

Eduardo looks away. His throat feels weird, like he's on the verge of crying. Because what's he supposed to do, tell Mark what the guy did? Tell him how scared he was? How much it hurt? How often shit like this happens to him, because he's weak and pathetic and everything else his father used to say? "I'd just like my room, if that's alright," he manages at last.

There's a long moment of silence. 

Then Mark sighs. "Fine," he says. He counts the money, types a bit on the computer, and passes Eduardo his ID and key card through the slot under the glass. "Room 22. Checkout's at noon tomorrow."

"Thanks," says Eduardo, continuing to avoid Mark's gaze. He takes the cards, pockets them, and leaves the lobby. He blinks away tears as he goes.

***

The first thing Eduardo does when he gets to his room is take off his wet clothes and put them on the radiator to dry.

The next thing he does is stand in front of the mirror and stare at the finger-shaped marks, angry and purple, that wrap around his throat. 

Then he takes a shower.

Once he's dry, he opens his backpack and— unsurprisingly— finds its contents soaked, including his sweatshirt and sweatpants. So those go onto the radiator too, and Eduardo just stays naked. He turns up the heat as high as it will go. Then he brushes his teeth, sets the alarm clock, and turns out the light.

***

Buried under the blankets, Eduardo tries to get comfortable.

But his neck hurts. And his ass hurts. Badly.

It'll probably be at least a week before he's able to offer anything but blowjobs and handjobs, and those don't pay much. Which means he's going to be sleeping outside a lot in the coming days— sleeping outside in wet clothes and without a decent jacket. He hopes he doesn't get sick. Jesus, he thinks. He really can't afford to get sick. And somehow he'll have to buy food too...

Eduardo curls up more tightly, willing himself to stop worrying, willing himself not to cry.

But he cries anyway, cries and cries like a stupid little kid, until finally, he cries himself to sleep.

***

He wakes up to his alarm at 11:50 the next morning. He feels his clothes (still wet), sighs, and goes to take a shit. When he's finished, there's blood in the water. He flushes it away, glances at his haggard reflection, leaves the bathroom—

And there, on the carpet by the door, is a folded piece of paper.

Eduardo picks it up. Written on one side is a phone number. He frowns, and unfolds the page to find a brief, handwritten note:

_Dear Luis from Florida aka Eduardo,  
I'm off work today. Call me, there's a payphone outside  
I left money with Christy at the front desk  
– Mark_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! please please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts!


	6. kirkland apartments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry we're still not at the hurt comfort omg. but i hope you like this chapter?

Mark answers the phone on the first ring.

"Hello?" he says.

"Hi," says Eduardo. He can feel himself blushing, can feel his stomach flipping nervously. He presses the pay phone more firmly to his ear. "Um, it's Eduardo?" 

"You called." Mark sounds surprised.

"Yeah, I— yeah. Of course."

Mark doesn't reply, but Eduardo can hear him breathing on the other end of the line.

"Mark? What's up?" Eduardo prompts at last.

"Nothing," says Mark. And then, after a brief little pause: "I wondered if you were working today."

"I work every day," Eduardo says.

"Oh." There's a moment of silence. "Well, what if you stayed at my apartment tonight, instead of the motel?" Mark asks then. "Would you still have to work today?"

"Um—" Eduardo frowns. Mark wants Eduardo to stay at his house? Overnight? "I mean I'd want to buy myself, like, food, so..."

"I have food," says Mark quickly. "Or we could go out somewhere."

Eduardo's mind is racing. So is his heart. "Are you sure?" he asks. He's not sure why Mark would want to have some lowlife street whore over as a guest, but Jesus, Eduardo could use somewhere safe to sleep tonight. And some time to recover. And something to eat. "I don't— I don't want to impose, or anything..."

"I wouldn't have offered if it would be an imposition," says Mark. Eduardo can almost hear the shrug in his voice.

Eduardo's heart sort of flutters. "I— I guess I could take the day off then," he says slowly.

"Great," says Mark. "I'll pick you up at the motel." And he hangs up the phone without further discussion, before Eduardo can even thank him.

***

Eduardo tries sitting down by the payphone to wait, but it hurts, so he stands back up. It's cold outside, and Eduardo's clothes are all wet, which makes him feel even colder. He runs his hand over his hair and wishes he'd combed some gel through it or something. And maybe he should have put makeup on his neck; he keeps some in his backpack for when he has to work after getting roughed up, because customers, for the most part, don't like bruises.

But oh well. It's not like Mark's never seen him looking like shit before.

He stands there shivering for maybe five minutes, until Mark pulls up in a very old, very junky little car.

Eduardo gets in, grimacing slightly as he sits, and Mark smiles at him. He has dimples. How did it take Eduardo three days to notice that Mark has dimples?

"I live pretty near," says Mark, pulling out of the parking lot, apparently oblivious to the affect his dimples are having on Eduardo. "And fair warning, it's a shithole."

"I guarantee you I won't mind," Eduardo tells him. "Like, if you knew half the places I've slept..." He trails off.

Mark glances at him briefly, then fixes his eyes on the road again. "How long have you been homeless?" he asks.

"Three years," says Eduardo.

Mark nods contemplatively, but doesn't press him for details. They drive the rest of the way in silence, till they reach Mark's apartment complex. _Kirkland_ , reads the sign by the entrance. 

"This is it," says Mark, parking.

They get out of the car, and they walk up some stairs, and Mark unlocks the door to his apartment.

***

It's not really a shithole at all, thinks Eduardo, as he steps through the front door. It's just very small and sparsely-furnished— a tiny studio apartment, nothing more than a main room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. In the corner are a mattress, a clothing rack, and a couple cardboard boxes. Against the wall is a flimsy-looking desk with an open laptop on it. Closer to the kitchen is a card table with a couple metal folding chairs. And that's it.

Mark shuts the door, turns on the light, and stands there, toeing at the carpet as Eduardo looks around.

"It's nice," Eduardo offers at last, not insincerely.

Mark scoffs, but he seems to relax a little. "You want some food?" he asks. "I already ate, but." He shrugs. "I have hot pockets, cereal, tuna, bread, twizzlers..."

***

Eduardo devours three tuna sandwiches at the table while Mark looks on with apparent curiosity.

"You were really hungry," he observes flatly as Eduardo swallows his last bite.

Eduardo blushes. "I guess lately I've sort of been prioritizing shelter over food," he admits.

Mark frowns, then nods. "It's been cold," he says understandingly.

"Yeah."

Mark watches him for a moment, his gaze so piercing that Eduardo looks away. Then, without any malice: "You should wash your clothes," he says.

Eduardo glances up.

"They're wet and they smell weird," Mark goes on. "And this complex has a laundry room; you might as well use it. Do you have stuff to change into?"

"Nothing dry," Eduardo admits.

Mark gives an easy shrug. "Then borrow some of mine."

And there's something about the way Mark offers help— something matter-of-fact, almost indifferent— that makes it easy to accept.

Eduardo is used to being treated either like shit or like a charity case. Mark does neither, just treats him like a person.

"Thanks," Eduardo tells him.

Mark shrugs in response, then smiles, his cheeks dimpling softly.

And Jesus fucking Christ. Eduardo thinks he might be falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!!! more to come soon! comments always make my day :)


	7. concealer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** mentions of rape, mentions of choking

Eduardo changes into some clothes of Mark's: a hoodie, sweatpants, socks, and boxers, all blessedly dry and smelling strongly of cheap detergent. The pants are too short for Eduardo's legs, and he feels weird wearing someone else's underwear, but mainly he's just grateful not to be wet anymore.

He puts his own clothes in Mark's laundry basket, and they're about to leave for the laundry room when Eduardo freezes.

"My neck," he says.

"What about it?" asks Mark, his hand on the doorknob.

"I have to put something on to cover the bruises," says Eduardo.

"Why?" Mark frowns. "We're not gonna see anyone. And if we do, they're not gonna notice."

"Yes they will," says Eduardo distractedly, unzipping his rain-drenched backpack and rummaging through it till he finds his concealer. "Can I use your bathroom?"

Mark's expression is unreadable, but he nods.

So Eduardo walks over to the cramped little bathroom, squeezes inside, and turns on the light. He considers his bruises for a moment, then gingerly gets to work covering them up.

Mark stands there by the bathroom doorway, watching as Eduardo applies the makeup to his neck. "Did you actually mean it," he asks after a while, "when you said it was consensual?"

Eduardo glances over.

"The choking," Mark clarifies.

"Oh. Yeah, I— of course I meant it." Eduardo gives Mark what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I would have stopped him if it weren't."

Mark squints. He looks supremely unconvinced.

"I mean, it... I didn't _enjoy_ it," admits Eduardo, fixing his gaze back on the mirror and continuing to pat the concealer over his bruises. "But— he paid me. And it's my job, you know?"

"How much did he pay?"

"Mark..."

Mark just crosses his arms, sets his jaw. "How much?" he repeats.

Eduardo sighs, and begins to apply a second coat of concealer. "Fifty," he mutters.

Mark looks thoughtful, and for a moment, Eduardo thinks— hopes— that it might be the end of the conversation. 

But then: "Just to choke you though?" Mark asks, like he already knows the answer. "Or did he fuck you too?"

Eduardo doesn't respond right away, just stares at his neck in the mirror. Two coats of concealer, and his bruises still aren't completely hidden. "He fucked me too," he says quietly.

"For fifty bucks?" asks Mark, with a frown. "That's all you charge?"

" _No_ ," says Eduardo, before he can help himself, his cheeks burning with shame. "No, I'm not— I'm not some— It should've been more; I told him twenty-five for the blowjob and eighty for the sex, but—" His voice breaks.

Mark is quiet for a while, and Eduardo starts on coat three of concealer.

Then Mark asks, quite bluntly, "When they don't pay you what you ask for, is that... Does that make it, like, rape, or something?"

Eduardo's stomach clenches uncomfortably. "Jesus, Mark. No," he whispers. "It wasn't _rape_ ; it was just—" He glances over at Mark, who's still frowning, then goes back to smearing concealer onto his throat. "Fuck this stuff; it doesn't cover shit," he mutters. As if that's what's bothering him.

And all he can think is that his father would find this so satisfying: the idea of Eduardo, humiliated and on the verge of tears, finally outed as the worthless little bitch he is, so cheap and desperate that he'll let himself get fucked and abused for fifty lousy dollars—

Mark takes a step closer, so he's hovering uncertainly by Eduardo's shoulder. "You look good," he says quietly, then clears his throat. "I mean, your— your neck. It looks fine."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"No it _doesn't_ ," says Eduardo. And then, all of a sudden, he starts to sob. He staggers backward, sinks down so he's sitting on the lid of the toilet seat. With trembling fingers, he closes the concealer compact and clips it into his hoodie pocket. Then, still crying, he buries his face in his hands.

Vaguely, he's aware of Mark moving into the room and taking a seat nearby, on the edge of the bathtub. One of his knees brushes briefly against Eduardo's. But he doesn't say anything: doesn't tell Eduardo to shut up and grow a pair, doesn't try to comfort him with empty platitudes; just sits there in silence and lets Eduardo cry.

And Eduardo appreciates it, appreciates his quiet presence.

"I didn't try to stop him," he whimpers eventually, through tears. "When he was fucking me. I didn't fight back. Jesus, I never fight back; I always let them do whatever they fucking want to me—" He breaks off, suddenly crying too hard to speak.

"It'd be stupid to try to fight someone who's stronger than you," Mark states flatly. "They could hurt you. Or kill you."

"I thought he w- _was_ gonna kill me," sobs Eduardo. "When he was choking me. I c-couldn't breathe."

"Yeah, it's no fun getting choked," says Mark.

Eduardo sniffles, glances up. "You've been choked before?"

"Yes," Mark says.

"When?"

Mark just looks away. 

For a while, neither of them speaks.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Eduardo says eventually, trying to get a grip on himself.

"For what?"

"I don't know." Eduardo wipes uselessly at his eyes. "For crying. And for being so..." He sniffs. "I don't know, I'm always _like_ this; Jesus, it's fucking pathetic."

"It's not," says Mark. 

That's it, that's all he says. 

But somehow it's enough.

Eduardo stops crying. He draws a shuddering breath. "Thanks," he mumbles.

Mark doesn't answer, just scoots forward so their knees are pressed together, takes Eduardo's face in his hands, leans in—

And kisses him.

When they pull apart, Eduardo is crying again. But he's smiling too, and so is Mark.

"That was good," is Mark's assessment. 

Eduardo gives a watery laugh and nods, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. 

Mark peers at him. "Are you okay?" he asks, after a moment.

Eduardo nods again. "I'm okay," he says.

And he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!! leave a comment if you enjoyed <3


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